I hate it here

 I hate it here. 

I hate the cracked tiles in the bathroom.

The sinking floor that makes me want to crawl in a ball and cry as if that will make it better.

The way the door sticks like it’s just as tired as I am.

I hate the mess that I can never seem to keep up with.

The endless laundry, and bottomless sink.

The stains I gave up scrubbing.

The corners, and shelves that collect dust like it’s their jobs, 

and memories I’m not sure I want to keep.

Sometimes it feels like the walls are closing in.

Like the space is too small for all the emotions packed into it.

Like no matter how many times I rearrange the furniture, and scrub the floors I still can’t breathe.

But then again;

I love it here.

Because this is where my kids run to me with sticky hands and stories.

Where my husband wraps his arms around me, and loves me, and always pulls me back down to earth. 

Where the kitchen becomes a dance floor and the hallway a racetrack.

Where I hear little feet pounding down the stairs and laughter echoing through every room.

This is where we’ve had meltdowns and breakthroughs.

Where the mess means we lived today.

Where the walls have heard “I love you” more times than I can count.

So yeah.

I hate my house.

But I love it here.

Because home is more than walls windows, dust, and cracks.

It’s where I’m most myself, even when I wish I could run away from everything.

Even when I swear I can’t take another second.

Even then, I always come back for more.